Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
A great weekend
Well, we can start with the new roof on Friday. Then had our in-town grandkids spend the night Friday night so we they could watch the parade go by our house Saturday morning. That became an opportunity for breakfast, with waffles and eggs and bacon and Shaina and Max, followed by the parade. Next came a wonderfully restful nap, a nice mass with one of our own priests for the first time in several weeks, a great meeting of our marriage encounter group, and topping off the evening with a great get-together in honor of Shaina's 30th b-day.
Sunday morning was an early rise for a metric century, followed by another snooze (more deserved, I'd have to say), a wonderful phone call with a dear friend, a long-overdue bath for my bike, a fabulous dinner with Jodi and Steve, and a very nice time of sharing with Teri that promises to become a daily part of our lives.
Wow. Today I'd love to just bask in all that with a lazy day, but my job is calling me back to the other part of reality . . .
Sunday morning was an early rise for a metric century, followed by another snooze (more deserved, I'd have to say), a wonderful phone call with a dear friend, a long-overdue bath for my bike, a fabulous dinner with Jodi and Steve, and a very nice time of sharing with Teri that promises to become a daily part of our lives.
Wow. Today I'd love to just bask in all that with a lazy day, but my job is calling me back to the other part of reality . . .
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Balance
Sometimes we find balances that don't really work for us, and they end up messing us up in the long term. I had one of those for a long time, and then, it turns out, replaced it with another one.
No, I'm not the greatest thing ever. And no, I'm not the scum of the earth. At least, I'm pretty sure it's "no" on both counts.
But these two antipodal points of view have, between them, always defined the most important relationship in my life. For almost fifteen years, I fancied myself superior to my wife, and she put up with all the attendant baggage that came along with that. For the almost fifteen years since, I've considered myself beneath her, and while I've treated her far better as a result, it has also built our relationship upon an equally false foundation.
St. Paul's admonition to the Philippians, "Humbly regard others as more important than yourselves," has to apply in there somewhere. In fact, I'm certain that's why our relationship has been way better for her in my latter pseudo-balance than it was in the former.
But the process of accepting myself as someone who is worthwhile brings with it serious relationship challenges, even as I avoid a pendular overcompensation back toward my original delusion. After being married for thirty years, I didn't expect to have to rebuild our relationship on a new foundation. I didn't expect differences that haven't mattered in years to suddenly have to be rebalanced. I didn't expect to have to rediscover the person I'm married to so that I could figure out how each rediscovery fits into a healthily balanced life together. And those things that have remained issues all along? Those are the hardest. I didn't expect to have to put them in a different perspective from the one I've made due with for the last 15 years.
It isn't that we're in a crisis. Far from it. I remain committed to you, my darling, and am still really glad we're spending the rest of our life together.
No, I'm not the greatest thing ever. And no, I'm not the scum of the earth. At least, I'm pretty sure it's "no" on both counts.
But these two antipodal points of view have, between them, always defined the most important relationship in my life. For almost fifteen years, I fancied myself superior to my wife, and she put up with all the attendant baggage that came along with that. For the almost fifteen years since, I've considered myself beneath her, and while I've treated her far better as a result, it has also built our relationship upon an equally false foundation.
St. Paul's admonition to the Philippians, "Humbly regard others as more important than yourselves," has to apply in there somewhere. In fact, I'm certain that's why our relationship has been way better for her in my latter pseudo-balance than it was in the former.
But the process of accepting myself as someone who is worthwhile brings with it serious relationship challenges, even as I avoid a pendular overcompensation back toward my original delusion. After being married for thirty years, I didn't expect to have to rebuild our relationship on a new foundation. I didn't expect differences that haven't mattered in years to suddenly have to be rebalanced. I didn't expect to have to rediscover the person I'm married to so that I could figure out how each rediscovery fits into a healthily balanced life together. And those things that have remained issues all along? Those are the hardest. I didn't expect to have to put them in a different perspective from the one I've made due with for the last 15 years.
It isn't that we're in a crisis. Far from it. I remain committed to you, my darling, and am still really glad we're spending the rest of our life together.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
Status quo
I was concerned this morning that you might be feeling as if, as long as everything feels status quo, we must be okay. I'm concerned that you may have the idea that nurturing our relationship isn't going to still be hard work, that we've reached a point at which we can just put things on cruise control and they'll take care of themselves.
I understand that our circle's dialog challenge intimidates you, that just thinking about dialoguing makes you feel inadequate and insecure, even though you've been doing so well with it when we do. I don't have the slightest interest in pressuring you into something that makes you feel that way. But what do you propose, then, as an alternative that will give us the daily time we need to nurture our relationship together? There has to be something, because what we're doing now isn't working. My idea of a life together involves more than simply sharing a home and a bed . . .
I love you, deeply. But we can't take that for granted. We've got to keep tending. We need time together, not just in the same room, but actually sharing activities, sharing our feelings, hopes and fears. And we need to keep reaching outside ourselves, too. I'm pretty sure the idea isn't for us to live in a "contentedly ever after" enclave for the rest of our lives. Those two things - working on our relationship and opening ourselves up to others in appropriate ways - need to go hand-in-hand.
I love you, deeply. But we can't take that for granted. We've got to keep tending. We need time together, not just in the same room, but actually sharing activities, sharing our feelings, hopes and fears. And we need to keep reaching outside ourselves, too. I'm pretty sure the idea isn't for us to live in a "contentedly ever after" enclave for the rest of our lives. Those two things - working on our relationship and opening ourselves up to others in appropriate ways - need to go hand-in-hand.
Monday, August 09, 2010
The unnatural course of events
When I decided to go ahead and drag the trash can to the curb, I had no idea I would enmesh myself in an unusual ethical dilemma involving cause and effect and my impact on the natural order of things.
But there in the grass, next to my driveway near the spot where I put the trash can and recycle bin each week, sat a gray, wren-like bird - obviously injured, as it didn't fly away even as I passed within a foot of it. So I had Teri bring me out a piece of bread to see if it was interested in eating some crumbs, while I tried to figure out if there was any way I was going to be able to help it.
Meanwhile, across the street, two teenagers strolled down the sidewalk - one twirling a long stick of some sort - trailed by a black-and-white cat walking in the neighbors' yards. The cat stopped to stare at one neighbor's house in response to the ruckus their dog started raising at its presence. About that time, the bird must've decided I'd gotten too close for it's comfort, as it attempted to fly away, getting about halfway out into the vacant traffic lane before apparently remembering it couldn't really take wing at present.
The cat, of course, immediately recognized dinner, and made a beeline for the bird.
Well, normally I'd have no problem with a stray cat having its way with an injured bird - all part of the natural course of events - but in this case I felt somewhat responsible for having raised the cat's attention when the bird had just been sitting there inconspicuously until my curiosity disturbed it. I couldn't just watch the cat pounce on the poor, injured thing. So I ran out into the empty street and raised a ruckus, and the cat ran past the bird and me, through my yard, and hid out under my car, obviously waiting for the big creature to go away so it could get to its meal. I was having none of that.
But as I chased the cat from under my car into the next-door neighbor's yard, I noticed that the thing looked fairly young, perhaps an older kitten. And it soon approached and rubbed against my leg on the way by, so it seemed to be a friendly one, to boot. Meanwhile, my wife, fearful of cats for quite some time now, stood guard over the injured bird, which we'd manage to chase back onto the grass before decatting my car. And upon my daughter's arrival home, she made the observation that this young-looking cat was also pregnant-looking.
Well, our attempt to catch the bird wasn't working out too well, and here I was with an injured bird and a hungry, friendly momma-cat on my hands, along with a far greater sense of responsibility for things than a less-neurotic person probably would have felt. Perplexed and grasping for a solution, I started walking up the street in the hope that the friendly cat would follow, fully expecting that if she did she'd likely follow me back home, too, but hoping maybe she wouldn't. In that case, maybe we could then figure out what to do about the injured bird. Somehow I got lucky on both scores with the cat, who finally sat down in a yard about a block away and decided in the manner that only cats understand not to trail me home. Then I found a third bit of luck, in a way, with the bird: when I returned from up the street I couldn't find it anymore.
So nature will probably still take its course: some critter will probably eat the bird, and a young momma cat will probably find a meal, but at least I won't feel like that injured bird became supper primarily because of my intervention!
But there in the grass, next to my driveway near the spot where I put the trash can and recycle bin each week, sat a gray, wren-like bird - obviously injured, as it didn't fly away even as I passed within a foot of it. So I had Teri bring me out a piece of bread to see if it was interested in eating some crumbs, while I tried to figure out if there was any way I was going to be able to help it.
Meanwhile, across the street, two teenagers strolled down the sidewalk - one twirling a long stick of some sort - trailed by a black-and-white cat walking in the neighbors' yards. The cat stopped to stare at one neighbor's house in response to the ruckus their dog started raising at its presence. About that time, the bird must've decided I'd gotten too close for it's comfort, as it attempted to fly away, getting about halfway out into the vacant traffic lane before apparently remembering it couldn't really take wing at present.
The cat, of course, immediately recognized dinner, and made a beeline for the bird.
Well, normally I'd have no problem with a stray cat having its way with an injured bird - all part of the natural course of events - but in this case I felt somewhat responsible for having raised the cat's attention when the bird had just been sitting there inconspicuously until my curiosity disturbed it. I couldn't just watch the cat pounce on the poor, injured thing. So I ran out into the empty street and raised a ruckus, and the cat ran past the bird and me, through my yard, and hid out under my car, obviously waiting for the big creature to go away so it could get to its meal. I was having none of that.
But as I chased the cat from under my car into the next-door neighbor's yard, I noticed that the thing looked fairly young, perhaps an older kitten. And it soon approached and rubbed against my leg on the way by, so it seemed to be a friendly one, to boot. Meanwhile, my wife, fearful of cats for quite some time now, stood guard over the injured bird, which we'd manage to chase back onto the grass before decatting my car. And upon my daughter's arrival home, she made the observation that this young-looking cat was also pregnant-looking.
Well, our attempt to catch the bird wasn't working out too well, and here I was with an injured bird and a hungry, friendly momma-cat on my hands, along with a far greater sense of responsibility for things than a less-neurotic person probably would have felt. Perplexed and grasping for a solution, I started walking up the street in the hope that the friendly cat would follow, fully expecting that if she did she'd likely follow me back home, too, but hoping maybe she wouldn't. In that case, maybe we could then figure out what to do about the injured bird. Somehow I got lucky on both scores with the cat, who finally sat down in a yard about a block away and decided in the manner that only cats understand not to trail me home. Then I found a third bit of luck, in a way, with the bird: when I returned from up the street I couldn't find it anymore.
So nature will probably still take its course: some critter will probably eat the bird, and a young momma cat will probably find a meal, but at least I won't feel like that injured bird became supper primarily because of my intervention!
Friday, August 06, 2010
Nazareth missed the point
They included it on the U.S. version of Hair of the Dog, and it was probably their biggest hit. They got the title right, at least, even if they were wrong in most of the lyrics. Yes, love hurts.
I used to think that maybe that was only true when one or the other of the lovers (a word I'm applying more broadly than its senses of romance or sexuality) failed the other in some egregious way, or when tragic circumstances intervened to knock presumed destiny off its rails. I've seen enough of the former, unfortunately, including being the offending partner, and have fancied myself the victim of the latter.
I've known better for some time now. It seems to be part of the nature of love, of making ourselves vulnerable, that hurt becomes an inescapable part of it. Those unwilling to hurt are incapable of loving well. I started to post on Facebook a trite and overstated observation that love only hurts when you do it right, then realized how utterly ridiculous such a statement would be. The truth is far more nuanced: love's hurt is best and most worthwhile when you do it right.
Sometimes in this life we're blessed with the opportunity to love another, in family, in romance, or in friendship - the best marriages, including my own, combine all three - and to end up feeling the pain that results from whatever life happens to bring along the way. Such pain is a gift, a small taste of the Father's great love for us that motivated God to move heaven and earth to be reunited with us, for our own sake. To walk closely in God's love with a precious brother or sister for a priceless time that draws to its proper close is an exquisitely painful and unspeakably beautiful experience.
I used to think that maybe that was only true when one or the other of the lovers (a word I'm applying more broadly than its senses of romance or sexuality) failed the other in some egregious way, or when tragic circumstances intervened to knock presumed destiny off its rails. I've seen enough of the former, unfortunately, including being the offending partner, and have fancied myself the victim of the latter.
I've known better for some time now. It seems to be part of the nature of love, of making ourselves vulnerable, that hurt becomes an inescapable part of it. Those unwilling to hurt are incapable of loving well. I started to post on Facebook a trite and overstated observation that love only hurts when you do it right, then realized how utterly ridiculous such a statement would be. The truth is far more nuanced: love's hurt is best and most worthwhile when you do it right.
Sometimes in this life we're blessed with the opportunity to love another, in family, in romance, or in friendship - the best marriages, including my own, combine all three - and to end up feeling the pain that results from whatever life happens to bring along the way. Such pain is a gift, a small taste of the Father's great love for us that motivated God to move heaven and earth to be reunited with us, for our own sake. To walk closely in God's love with a precious brother or sister for a priceless time that draws to its proper close is an exquisitely painful and unspeakably beautiful experience.
Wednesday, August 04, 2010
Auf wiedersehen, and vaya con Dios
Sorry to mix languages, but these two seem appropriate.
I believe I owe you the deepest and most sincere of apologies, though: I'm so sorry that I waited to nurture our friendship until I could see your departure approaching on the horizon, that I basically wasted the majority of your time here that could have been used to forge our friendship much sooner. But I'm also convinced that it all happened in God's good time, and I'm so joyfully amazed at how you've become one of my very closest friends so quickly. And I'm pretty pleased with myself for managing to follow through when, however many months ago now, I suggested that I'd be sure to cherish every available moment with you and your family before you left.
I'm hopeful for our friendship, for many reasons. I know the chief one should be our shared faith, but can't help feeling a little more tangible comfort simply in living in the 21st century, when we have convenient ways of staying in close touch with one another. I'm encouraged to learn that I've become someone who can have such a close friend without longing to make that relationship what it should never be, and I owe you my thanks for allowing me to discover that. But mainly, I believe that you're going where God would have you, to continue to nurture you and your family.
Still, that hope won't keep me from being sad that I won't be able to hug you, to see your understanding smile or feel your reassuring pat on the back when you know I'm feeling challenged. I know that this move is a lot more disruptive for you than it is for me. Still, I can't help thinking about times I know I'll miss you, of how I'll be reminded of your absence. Those reminders all involve wonderful parts of my life that will still be wonderful, but will now be missing someone who helped make them even more special. I won't list the ones I've already thought of, but they are many. You've touched so much of my life. Yet my overarching feeling is not sadness, but gratitude for you.
I hope we get a chance to spend a few moments alone before you go, in which perhaps it will be okay to shed a tear of thanksgiving for the priceless gift you are to me, and to be reminded that you will always remain my dear friend and sister in Christ.
I believe I owe you the deepest and most sincere of apologies, though: I'm so sorry that I waited to nurture our friendship until I could see your departure approaching on the horizon, that I basically wasted the majority of your time here that could have been used to forge our friendship much sooner. But I'm also convinced that it all happened in God's good time, and I'm so joyfully amazed at how you've become one of my very closest friends so quickly. And I'm pretty pleased with myself for managing to follow through when, however many months ago now, I suggested that I'd be sure to cherish every available moment with you and your family before you left.
I'm hopeful for our friendship, for many reasons. I know the chief one should be our shared faith, but can't help feeling a little more tangible comfort simply in living in the 21st century, when we have convenient ways of staying in close touch with one another. I'm encouraged to learn that I've become someone who can have such a close friend without longing to make that relationship what it should never be, and I owe you my thanks for allowing me to discover that. But mainly, I believe that you're going where God would have you, to continue to nurture you and your family.
Still, that hope won't keep me from being sad that I won't be able to hug you, to see your understanding smile or feel your reassuring pat on the back when you know I'm feeling challenged. I know that this move is a lot more disruptive for you than it is for me. Still, I can't help thinking about times I know I'll miss you, of how I'll be reminded of your absence. Those reminders all involve wonderful parts of my life that will still be wonderful, but will now be missing someone who helped make them even more special. I won't list the ones I've already thought of, but they are many. You've touched so much of my life. Yet my overarching feeling is not sadness, but gratitude for you.
I hope we get a chance to spend a few moments alone before you go, in which perhaps it will be okay to shed a tear of thanksgiving for the priceless gift you are to me, and to be reminded that you will always remain my dear friend and sister in Christ.
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